


The Blue and the Black

by lammermoorian



Series: sastiel drabs [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Artist Castiel, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8252140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: For the last several days, Castiel di Angelotti has spied a rather unusual visitor in their little church.





	

“Maestro di Angeletti, you’ve done it again!” Padre Giacomo’s voice, though soft, echoed through the cozy church. Castiel straightened from where he had been hunched over, drawing his brush in delicate lines over a half-detailed rose by Christ’s feet. “It looks magnificent.” All day, the worshippers and passerby had come to a stop behind him, transfixed by his incomplete painting, and had murmured their compliments, or simply continued by, but none had spoken to him directly.

Castiel ducked his head. “A million thanks, father, but it is not yet finished.” For this alcove, he had chosen to depict the passion in Gethsemane, Christ, on his knees, hands outstretched, eyes raised in despair to the heavens. The man was nearly finished, but the painter had been neglecting the garden, too preoccupied with the expression of the face for some time. His high cheekbones, his sharp chin, his eyes of green and gold; it was a departure from the standard depiction of the Lord - a much younger one, for instance - but Castiel was prepared to argue his position until the day of reckoning.

Giacomo seemed unperturbed by the changes he had wrought; rather, he was totally enraptured by the scene before him. “Look at him,” he whispered, trembling hand making the sign of the cross. “Such pain, but such joy as well… I am certain that all who see his face shall be moved beyond all reason.” He turned to Castiel, eyes glassy. “The face is masterfully done, di Angeletti.”

He bowed his head. “You flatter me.”

“Tell me, maestro,” Giacomo hummed, clearing his throat, “who is the young man who modeled for you? I should very much like to meet such a one who can feel the depths of our Lord’s pain as this.”

“Truthfully,” Castiel looked towards his painting, cheeks minutely aflame, “I know not who he is. The other day, as I was beginning to work, a man came in to pray.” A lie - merely a child, he had been. “I don’t remember much beyond his face.” Another lie. He remembered _everything_. He had been tall, dressed in a poor man’s cloak too large for his frame. His hands had been wrapped with bandages, clutched within them a wooden rosary. “But when he began to pray… father, I had never seen someone pray as fervently as he, with such intensity and sincerity, and, well, from that moment I knew in my heart that he would be the face of my Christ.” He had wept bitterly, whispered Pater Nosters and Ave Marias falling from his lips as if they were water, shoulders shaking with the force of his prayer. Another man, another child, truly, had come to collect him after some time, ushering him out of the church, with words of fear. _You can’t run off like that, brother_ , he had whispered, voice echoing despite his best efforts, _you scared me half to death_.

Giacomo shook his head. “Whoever he was,” he said, “If you see him again, tell him he has my deepest thanks for his part in bringing this work of art to life.” Giacomo took his hand, and then Castiel was alone once more with his nameless Christ. He thought about returning to the flower, but in truth, he itched to continue his work on the face, fruitless though it may have been. The boy had such an unusual, haunting face - indeed, Castiel would have liked to see him one more time, for the perfection of detail, but that was likely impossible. As a compromise, he turned his attention towards Christ’s hands. Though the scene took place before the Crucifixion, Castiel had taken the liberty of adding the wounds to Christ’s hands, stark carmine streaks haloed by a golden light. Only one hand had been completed; he had let the other dry as he tended to the painted flowers. As he knelt, drafting the rays of light, there came a gasp behind him. Surely another of the congregation; Castiel ignored him.

“How… how did you know?”

“Hmm?” Castiel did not look away from his work, as circles were notoriously difficult to perfect.

“How did you know about me?” At these words, he stilled, brush an inch from the wall. He turned around, a question in his throat that died away as he saw who had spoken.

“It’s you,” he breathed. The boy from earlier, his hands still bandaged, rosary still clutched within them, took a step back.

“What?”

“I saw you praying the other day, and I…” He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘how did I know?’”

The boy looked to the painting, eyes wide with fear. He glanced around, then crept closer to Castiel, and sank to the floor next to him. He held out his hands, the white bandages stained with blood, the wooden beads dyed red.

“How did you know about my hands?”

**Author's Note:**

> a late birthday gift for tumblr user wordsinhaled (written and posted much closer to her actual birthday)
> 
> no shippiness, but in sastiel drabs bc it probably would have ended up as sastiel anyway
> 
> ma, falle gli occhi neri, eh?


End file.
